If Only You Knew
by Charlene Ryder
Summary: Don't read this. It's not important. For all Maximum Ride, MIB, and X-Files fans. Or maybe if you're just someone who wants to hear the truth for once. Question is: would you believe it?
1. Chapter 1

You know what really knocks me out? Those government bastards. They really do. I mean, in a literal sense as well, if you let them get close enough to do a clean job of it and all. One little _thftt_ and you don't remember a dang thing. Out like a light. But boy, besides that, if you're just running from 'em like normal and all, they're pretty funny. They think they've got you, then you go and slip through their fingers because they're about as prepared as a beach bum in Siberia.

I'm quite an acrobat. I really am. See, when you take a girl like me and, say, toss her in the middle of a downtown like old Indy, which is a real sonuvahamsandwich come rush-hour, and throw in a buncha NPAX bastards on top of that, you have the makings of a real knockout. I mean it. Crazy as heck, with all those cars honking 'cause they don't like all the black vehicles acting like bumper-cars and they're not exactly thrilled about me vaulting over their windshields to get out of the way. I mean, I am moving it like nobody's business and all, and if you get in the way of my survival instincts you're going _down_ 'cause I ain't stopping for nobody. Like, suicidals act now. Get in my way. Take a punch. You won't get far.

I'm a whole three-ring circus all by myself, you know? I really am. With what I have to do to stay ahead of these guys, you could vend tickets and sell out in half an hour. I mean it. By now you're probably wondering what I'm going on about. You're probably like _okay, what's going on here, this don't make much sense_. I don't blame you. By now, my life doesn't make much sense. If you really want to hear about it, and I suppose you will, then you'll have to pull up a chair and get comfy because it's a long story. And at the moment you're sorta outta luck because I don't have the time to sit down and type out the novel for you on the account of people are trying to kick my bucket for me. Like, I am literally climbing things like walls and those big tall poles with streetlights at the top and making these magnificent twenty-foot leaps (if I do say so myself) to stay ahead of these nutcases. I'm having a heckuva time at it. Stirring up the civilians, for sure.

Right about now you're probably wondering how I'm doing what I'm doing. If you're wondering _why,_ please go and see your psychiatrist. I mean it. And the eye doctor while you're at it. Or maybe you should just come on out here yourself and see how long _you_ last against these guys. I mean, they've got their dang phenoguns and everything because regular bullets just don't cut it, apparently. Know what a phenogun does to flesh? It ain't pretty. You wouldn't last a second. And believe me, I don't need another thing like your death on my behalf on my conscious at the moment. So go and do whatever they say to do when creepy guys in black cars start firing at everything in sight. Hit the deck or whatever.

You're still wondering what the heck is going on here. That's okay. You're not alone. I wonder myself. I wonder why I'm not already dead sometimes. Then the answer comes to me.

Because I am wicked fast.

Because I can't die today, it'd mess up my schedule and all.

Because it'd give those hell-chomping bastards the satisfaction that they finally got me, and giving them any form of pleasure is against my personal morals.

Because it's not _me_ driving in here, it's the alien genes fused into my body.

Although you can probably see that and all, especially if you're one of those slack-jawed people sitting in your frozen 6:00 rush-hour watching me survive certain death. Giving ya'll a bang, aren't I? What, never seen an alien before? Blue skin and double-pointed ears a strange concept for you? Four fingers that grip stuff instead of five regular old boring ones outta your ballpark? How about that fact that I _used_ to be all the way human? Rock your world at all?

Well, maybe you shouldn't build your life out of the Popsicle sticks the government hands out. I won't even get into the whole reflective-eyes thing. By this point, people are usually running in the other direction, so it doesn't matter anyways, I suppose.

Like I said, fascinating book that'll probably capture your attention and never give it back and all, but no time to write it down because I'm too busy living it, call back later, okay? Maybe when I'm less occupied with staying alive. Because, you know, not everyone can leap from building to car to building while being shot at and handle a pen and paper at the same time. Comes out looking like a seismogram, which most people can't read.

So, here, to keep those sitting in the cars occupied – I call it Psychos And The Government 101. Basically, these government guys think I'm a bad guy and I'm _not_ but they're convinced I am so they keep trying to put me out of action in not-very-nice ways. So far they're doing a lousy job of it. Still kicking, aren't I? This is the part where I laugh maniacally, point my finger at them and yell FAIL!!!! at the top of my lungs. Ha!

Anyways, things could be better for me at the moment.

They might get there.

They might not.

They might go flush down the porcelain goddess.

They usually do.

But this isn't your battle, so the best you can do is stay out of my way and not waste boxes of tissues and whatnot. Not that many people do anyways. Most people get a mighty big bang outta seeing me look like this. A lot of them are like 'augh, an alien, run away!' or something like that, I dunno. I tried to stay hidden, but you know? Some things just don't work out all that great. This is one of those crumby times. I guess they figure that because those government guys are chasing after me and raising a heckuva racket in the process I must be dangerous or something. As _if._ I mean, watch it or I might steal your _hankie._ Sometimes I use _hand_ soap to wash my _face._ I'm outta control here. No wonder they're coming after me.

What really kills me is that this whole thing is still secret to most of you. People, get a _clue._ I mean, when they say what you just saw was swamp gas reflecting Venus on a weather balloon, you guys just nod your heads and wonder what's for dinner or whatever. It kills me. You're a buncha sheep, I swear. Anyway, _sorry_ you're getting such a bang outta this, _excuse_ me for surviving a completely unprovoked attack by _your_ people, _our_ people, I'll try and not dent your Porsche while I'm saving my behind.

See me way up there on that ledge? See how I'm not completely thrilled about it? In fact, see that expression with the wide eyes and tense mouth as I look down and try to flatten myself against the concrete so I don't get nailed and take the fifteen-story plunge? Those of us that have to deal with it call it _fear._ It's scary up there. I don't like it at all. I ain't doing this whole thing for bangs. Wait – if I _was_ doing it for bangs, would it be called a shebang? You know, because I'm a girl? Versus a _he_bang? Get it? I crack myself up.

I wish they'd just leave me alone for once. I never did anything to them. I mean, _pardon_ my saving someone's life and all, but really, how did I deserve this, even if that someone was from another planet? Even if that someone changed my life forever? Even if that someone is half the reason why I am where I am now? The way I look at it, it's not _my_ fault. Much. Again, see said novel that'll be out whenever I'm not too busy being mowed down by government wackos and their pet weapons that are _stolen,_ I might add.

Those of you who have had a bad day, place yourselves in my position. You'll feel less depressed. You really will. You could be trapped up here with all these hell-bitten choppers combing the skies and the cars and government bastards clotting below with their crumby guns. Did I ever think this sort of thing could happen to me back when I was a normal run-of-the-mill girl of 15? Not in my wildest dreams. Then again, my wildest dreams mostly consisted of missing the schoolbus and whatnot. Not exactly bang-grade material.

You'll get it sometime.

Hope that's sooner than later.

I really do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter**

NPAX. National Protection Against Extraterrestrials. You'd think they could come up with something more creative than that, being the ultra-secret uber-powerful endlessly-funded organization they've come to be. Really, that's seriously all the head honchos could come up with? Sounds like something that should go on a T-shirt. It really does.

Catchy acronym, though. You don't forget that one. Especially when they don't forget you.

Especially when you're sitting thirty stories up contemplating the meaning of 'sudden death' in a whole new way as they line up their sights and circle around. You know, in those really nifty SWAT-team-lookin' choppers. That's what I'd really learned since I'd gotten into all this. NPAX has a never-ending supply of choppers. You could blow up their head base and you still wouldn't faze the choppers. They just keep coming and coming and coming like the Energizer Bunny on speed. I don't know where they put 'em all (or, I assure you, I would have gotten to them by now. I hate choppers. I really do.)

So, how not to die today…clinging to the side of a windowed building doesn't seem like the best way to be going about things, as it is. Going back down at the moment would probably result in my capture and eventual termination. Probably in a less-than-pleasant manner. See, NPAX has this company policy: learn all we can about 'em before we kill 'em. Depressing like none other.

Talking things out was out of the question, mostly because nobody around here bothers to _listen_ before shooting. It can get on a persons' nerves. It really can.

Some of you may take this moment to point out that I'm not a person, I'm a alien. _Hybrid,_ people, not true extraterrestrial. Try to get it right. Used to be human, now I'm not. Best-seller will be out as soon as I dump these kooks, please try to avoid making stupid comments until then.

One of the choppers has decided it's a brilliant idea to see how close it can get without actually hitting the building. Touching. They're going to chop me with their blades instead of shoot me with their phenoguns. Or tranquilizers, whatever they're using. Humans really do have a compassionate side after all.

I let go and drop a good twenty feet, just to mess with 'em. Somebody took a shot from ground-level below; I felt the bullet whiz past my ear. While the sky graciously takes bullets for me I scramble around to a different side of the building. I think this really annoyed the people in the chopper trying to slice n' dice me. Good. That's my goal in life. Annoy people.

Still not seeing any way out. Rush-hour traffic sitting in every lane. Oodles of people with weapons making this really terrific roadblock down below. Enough choppers circling that I'm surprised nobody's had a mid-air collision yet. All and all, a little more than a typical day. This all just _had_ to happen when Trin was out of town, now didn't it? Couldn't have waited until he was here to help, nope, couldn't have that. Because then I might actually have a _chance, _and where's the fun in that? Better to watch me run around in a hopeless situation. So much more entertaining, like one of those reality shows. Except in, you know, reality.

Remember that person I mentioned saving? Well, before you go rescuing someone from nutty government people, you might want to make sure the person you're saving is actually _from the same planet._ Because, if they're, say, _not,_ results may vary. In this case, adding another set of DNA to the ol' collection and getting a bizarre ability along with it. We'll get into this again later, I'm sure.

I would argue that Trin's a person. Aliens are people too, right? Right. Somebody please explain this concept to the commando kooks below, they just can't seem to grasp it.

They have somehow landed a chopper on the roof of the building. I don't know how they did it; then again, I don't know how they do other things. Like squeezing their black sedans right up to the base of the building. _On _the sidewalks. _In_ a no-parking zone. With _no good reason._ Cops across town would soon be having communal hissy fits over this.

Back to business. Just because I can climb things like walls doesn't mean I have the magic answer to everything. That'd be nice, though, wouldn't it?

The chopper dumped a load of people up there. When I look straight up the sheet of glass I can see them not far above me, barely over the edge, laying out on their bellies to get the right angle to hit me. Staring up the barrels of half a dozen Colt CAR-15s is not my idea of Christmas Break. Neither is getting shot in the face.

The chopper hovering behind me decided it'd go ahead and solve this problem. A.k.a. take a few shots. I think these people are under the impression that the one who hits the target gets a raise. I mean, how well can a secret government job hunting down poor helpless exies pay anyways? Gotta get that bonus tip.

Anyway, for your information the chopper missed me. Which was mostly because I leapt out and grabbed on to its landing skid.

I have a pretty high jump radius. Thirty feet, on a good day. Today was a good day. I was so hyped on adrenaline I couldn't have done much less than that. I think I was irking them, with all my constant acrobatics. And trust me, hanging on underneath a chopper flying way high up over a bunch of guys with guns and self-control issues – not your average Olympic sport. Harder than it sounds, even if your four-fingered hands _do_ grip things.

I have no sympathy for NPAX. It's their own fault. They shouldn't have been flying their chopper close enough for me to do that. I'm just teaching 'em a lesson. Stay Back: Exy Hybrids Can And Will Jump. Take notes, folks, there'll be a quiz.

I locked my legs around that skid so I wouldn't fall. Jump, yes. Fly, no. If you're ever bored at home, try this. Try clutching a chopper skid while the thing's flying with _no_ safety net underneath. Or giant trampoline. Gets the ol' heart pumping pretty good.

I need to get Cyrel to teach me how to unwire helicopter machine guns. I've done cars and mopeds and even a small plane once, but never before have I had the opportunity to try pulling the plug on a chopper weapon. Would have been a good thing to know at this point, seeing as how I could reach it from this angle. I'd never really wished to be this close to one, but that's fate for ya.

Cyrel? The technologist of our little group. Trin left me with him while he and Skay are away taking out a Tressen we've tracked down. I'll deal with introductions later, now's really not the time. Just know that I currently have no idea where the technologist is – he'd been with me earlier in the run and he wasn't anymore. I think they might have gotten him.

Which really turned my stomach. Or maybe that was the odd upside-down angle of clinging to the underside of a live chopper. A little of both, perhaps?

The guys in the flying machine gun finally got smart and realized their target (_moi_) hadn't just disappeared into thin air. I can't do that, by the way. See in the dark? Yes. Climb sheer vertical surfaces? Check. Disasperate? I'm not Potter, guys, and Voldy never had total control of the nation's mindset.

So what do they do? Well, there's this really nifty little emergency trap-door type thing on the underside of whatever make of helicopter they're using. So they open it and bam! There I am, hanging off the skid! Amazing. I'm just jam-packed with surprises.

I stare up at the guy. He stares down at me. We both stare. I would stare some more if he wasn't clutching a phenogun in his hand. However, I made the executive decision that this was not a good defensive position to be in and jumped, propelling myself back to the building. I fell a little before making it, grabbing on to a pane of window somewhere in the 10-15 story range.

The man in the helicopter with the phenogun decides to be a hero and shoot after me.

Phenoguns: nasty pieces of alien weaponry. You don't want to get hit by one.

I didn't want to get hit by one, either, funny enough. I moved at the last millisecond (I like to do things close – keeps all the civilians on the edge of their seats). The green burst of energy hit the pane of window next to me, completely shattering it into a million sharded pieces.

I'm not stupid. Out here I'm a target in an arcade game. In there I'd be a real challenge. I threw myself through that hole into the building.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter**

It seems like human society is linked together by the miraculous invention of cubicles. It really does. You walk into any old building and you can pretty much always find at least one desk and chair within ten feet of the door. They have office spaces in America, England, Russia, China, Brazil, Canada, Australia, Botswana. They have office spaces in hospitals and industrial complexes and libraries and stores and parishes. They have office spaces for doctors and dentists and schools and presidents and I think you get my point so I'll stop rambling on pointlessly. The whole world's one gigantic office.

Coincidentally, so was the room I leapt in to. No time to take it into detail, the man in the chopper would be firing multiple times. I rolled to the side and ducked behind a cubicle before sliding around a corner and shimmying under a desk.

I'm rarely wrong. Several cubicle walls opened up gaping holes upon contact with the phenospheres. Chemicals and plasma are not nice to whatever they make those things out of. Then again, chemicals and plasma aren't really nice to anything. Thereby making phenoguns less than gregarious. Like I said. Don't hand 'em out as party favors.

Outside, the chopper buzzed past the shattered window, prop-wash scattering loose papers all over the place. Really, really loud. They switched from 'man with phenogun' to 'full-blown chopper machine gun'. Tricky me, I was way out of their range.

It took a while, but they eventually gave up after a shredding everything near the window. The chopper moved away from the jagged hole.. The _whop whop whop_ of its rotors gradually lessened. The papers resettled back onto the scattered wreckage like a bunch of limp white birds.

Which left me suspicious. Not ungrateful, but suspecting that something was up. Maybe it was just my cute paranoia doing its thing again. You can't blame me. You really can't. These guys are notorious for their inability to just _let it go…_

Okay….trap. Yep, definitely paranoia. I couldn't think of anything else it might be. Trap of time, effort, and manpower. I'd have to figure it out before it closed.

I started figuring by taking the opportunity to fully observe what I'd gotten myself into this time. Ceiling. Walls. Carpet. All somewhat busted up via helicopter weapons. So now I was in a building. An office building, in case you didn't pick up on that one. Under a desk. Because that would really shield me from a phenogun, now, wouldn't it? Gotta protect those insurance employees from the occasional gunshot.

Far away someone shouted. _They were inside the building with me._ I was seriously rethinking my strategy at this point. Remember how I said inside I'd be a real challenge? Yeah, well, real challenge in a real _box. _Protected, maybe, but only until they found me. Easier to be cornered when there are corners to do it in. I felt my heart kick up a couple notches, but I was keeping it together. Wouldn't do any good to panic yet.

I could go back outside – nope, there went the chopper again. They were making rounds, circling around outside, waiting for me to do just that. My chances for remaining in the non-dead section of existence were steadily slipping.

The only bright side to this little black hole was that I'd picked an _excellent_ day to do this. Saturday. Otherwise there probably would have been a whole bunch of random employees in the room with me running around/screaming/completely flippin' out at my sudden unexpected appearance and accompanying shooting. I really look out for you guys, you know that? No appreciation whatsoever.

I waited. What else could I do? Maybe, if I held still and didn't make any noise, they wouldn't find me. And maybe if I got a running start and jumped out the window flapping my arms I could fly away to Pixie Land where they have bans against NPAX and everybody accepts human/alien hybrids for who they really are.

I know. I could be a comedian. I really could. Maybe if I ever get some spare time…

Somebody was in the room with me. I didn't really notice at first because I was too busy examining the trash in the can next to me (somebody was a huge fan of blueberry pop-tarts). I stiffened like rigor-mortis when I heard a toe stub into a door jam. For top-secret-clearance-best-of-the-best-of-the-best operatives, you'd think they'd know better than to go stubbing their toes when sneaking up on you. Guess not. That's going to be on the quiz too. 'What _not_ to do when trying to surprise a target: stubbing random body parts.'

So now I knew they were there and coming. I also knew this late in the game I'd given them about as much trouble as they were going to take. Pretty soon they'd put away the tranquilizer guns and just shoot-to-kill. Puts the pressure on me, when there's no second chance to play around with.

_Think, think, think…_So far, the only plan I had was 'hope they're allergic to blueberry pop-tarts'. Better not to depend on random acts of genetics like that. I scrunched farther back under the desk. This was not how I was going to go out of the world, I knew that. Just wasn't going to happen. Nuh-uh. No way. Not in a miserable office building sitting in the dark underneath some poor sap's cheaply-made desk.

I listened to them moving closer. Too bad playing the age card wouldn't work. These people don't care how old someone like me is. If you look alien, you're alien. They'd go around killing babies if that were the case. Enough to make you puke, isn't it?

I was in the process of concocting something brilliant when I saw the first shoe. That shoe was connected to a foot. That foot was connected to a leg. That leg was connected to a…well, eventually we get to 'gun aimed dead at my chest'. Couple of them, actually. Not a great place to have 'em pointed.

I. Didn't. Move. They. Didn't. Move. None. Of. Us. Moved.

Except in my head. Something snapped into place, as they often do during these little escapades I get into. Perfecto.

Mr. Glock and Mr. Benelli – meet The Chicago Desk Chair Company.

Guns are powerful in their own right. They really are, and I don't normally argue with that. However, they really are no match for the sheer raw physics of a thrown office chair. The rolly-seat's impact on the men not only stopped their bullets, but also had the three of them out cold on the floor.

Not bad for a fifteen-year-old, wouldn't you say? One shot, three guys. Office Max 1, NPAX 0. I was off, out from under that desk and running again, dodging around cubicle wall after cubicle wall. I swear, this was like Cubicle Land. The rolly-chair had made a bunch of noise, there were be more people on the way, and in no lack of time.

Speaking of which. They don't waste it.

When I located the doorway, the only other exit to the room, there were a bunch more men in it. Like, a ton more. More than I could mow down with my speed, reflexes, or legendary ninja skills. I shouldn't have run right out in front of them – I didn't know they were there.

They were there. They were waiting. They were going to be the end of me.

I backed up, moving slowly, searching for any way out of this dead-end game I was playing. Their black Kevlar helmets hid their eyes, their faces. Their guns were raised and zeroed in. Trapped, helpless, about to be put out of action.

I think we should vote on this. Civilians included.

They think not.

In a warped, senseless, realistic world, guess whose vote counts more?

_el Fin_

_For now…_


End file.
